


In the Wake of Your Goodbye

by raiining



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Get Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Presumed Dead, minor spoilers for all aired episodes of MAoS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Nick Fury comes to Phil recovering in the infirmary and tells him that the Avengers think he's dead, Phil thinks back over the fuck-up of the past two years.</p>
<p>"It's okay," he tells the Director, knowing that it's true.  "I think I need a change."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wake of Your Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> As always, MASSIVE THANKS to Ralkana, who edited this for me even when I told her it was full of fuck-up's and feels. THANK YOU GORGEOUS!!

"So after we retrieve the data how about we go out for coffee? I saw a trendy place around the corner."

Phil knows there's no one around to see, so he allows himself a smile. "Do they have blueberry muffins?"

"Coulson, you have coffee with me and I'll _make_ you blueberry muffins."

"We've been working together for four years now, Barton, and you finally decide to tell me you can bake?"

He can hear Clint's grin over the comm. "I make a pretty mean jambalaya. That's got to translate into something, right?"

Phil doesn't bother to hide his wince. "No. It does not."

"Aww, come on, Coulson, what do you know? Can _you_ bake?"

Phil thinks of his mother's secret stash of recipes, of the scones he made last week and ate alone in his apartment. He'd thought of Clint when he made them, even though it was inappropriate. This _thing_ they've been doing – this flirting – has never gone beyond words said over a comm. Phil knows it never can, not while he's Clint's direct superior. 

After, though... Well, Phil’s privately spent considerable time wondering about _after_.

"That information is need to know, Agent."

Clint laughs. Phil can't help but smile. 

It drops from his face a moment later when their target moves. Phil watches from across the street. "As soon as he's alone, take the shot."

"Yes, sir," Clint responds. Like Phil, he's instantly focused. 

They follow the target together, Phil from the ground and Clint from up high, until he walks around the corner of the nearest building. The passage of the tranquilizer arrow is silent, and Phil doesn’t hear a thing. He rounds the corner seconds after the shot and catches the man before he hits the ground. It only takes a few moments to retrieve the plans HYDRA had passed him that afternoon, substitute them for decoys created by S.H.I.E.L.D., and prop him on his knees at the back of the alleyway. He takes out a flask of whiskey and sprinkles a little on the man's clothing, then adds a realistic pile of vomit from the bag inside his suit. He leaves without a backwards glance and is three blocks away before Clint joins him, as planned.

"All good, sir?"

"All good," Phil agrees. 

"So," Clint asks, a cheeky grin on his face, "coffee?"

Phil wants, very badly, to say yes. Instead, he nods towards the S.H.I.E.L.D. van parked around the corner. "You never told me if they have blueberry muffins. Besides, I want to analyze this data before we get into the air. You can make coffee on the Bus."

"It's just not the same, sir," Clint replies. Phil hopes he isn't just imagining the faint thread of disappointment in his voice. 

 

*

 

It takes another six months, but Clint is finally granted solo-agent status. His security clearance is bumped up from a five to a six, and Phil is no longer his direct superior. 

Six months. Six months of flirting, of watching, of wanting so badly he could taste it, but not being able to act or even promise that he would if he had the chance. Phil knows how many people in authority have abused Clint's trust before. He’s promised himself he won’t be one of them.

The day the Director gives Clint his promotion, Phil’s waiting in his office with a bottle of champagne and a paper bag filled with blueberry muffins. He made them last night, resolutely not thinking about how he wanted this meeting to go. All he knows is that he's waited long enough. If all Clint wanted to do was flirt, if that's all this ever was to him, then Phil needs to know that. He can't keep wondering if there will ever be anything more.

Clint comes directly to his office after his meeting with Fury, which isn’t so much a good sign as it is habit by this point. Phil has to laugh at the dazed look in his eye. "Congratulations."

Clint shakes his head, clearly overwhelmed. "I... he said he was _proud_ of me. I mean, what?"

Phil doesn’t try to hide his smile. "Of course he is. We all are."

"I'm just a circus boy screw up," Clint mumbles to himself, a flush on his cheeks. He shakes his head. "Level _six_. Wow."

"You've earned it," Phil says. He pulls out the bottle of champagne. "Want to do the honours?"

Clint grins as he takes the bottle, then grins wider as he notices the paper bag sitting on Phil's desk. "Aw, Coulson. Did you bake?"

"This _is_ a special occasion.” 

"I thought your skills were need to know?”

"You're level six now, which means you need to know," Phil replies. He takes a deep breath. "Just like it means I'm allowed to ask. Clint," he swallows, "would you like to have dinner with me?"

Clint blinks. It’s a split-second hesitation, but Phil catches it nonetheless. He holds his breath. 

And releases it when Clint grins. “Tonight?”

Phil resists the urge to grin back. “If you like.”

“I _like_. What time is it? Can we leave now?”

Phil glances at his watch. It _is_ after five, which is at least an hour earlier than he usually leaves the office, but there’s nothing pressing on his desk at the moment. 

“Sure,” he says, and doesn’t miss the way Clint’s eyes light up. “Where do you want to go?”

They debate restaurants as they walk out of S.H.I.E.L.D. together. Clint’s spent the day in meetings leading up to his talk with Director Fury, even if he hadn’t known at the time that his day would end up there. He’s dressed in casual, if clean, clothes, so Phil rules out anything too fancy. As much as he’d like to wine and dine Barton, he knows the man well enough that it wouldn’t be appreciated. Clint has never been comfortable in fancy dress. 

They end up at a local place Phil has frequented before, where the server doesn’t bother glancing at Clint’s wrinkled khakis. They share appetizers and talk over dinner and it’s... easy. Surprisingly easy, and yet so wonderfully _right_. Phil knows he’s smiling and he doesn’t want to stop. Clint pauses in the middle of a story involving Natasha, two arms dealers, and polar bear – which Phil has surprisingly not heard before – and smiles back.

It’s better than Phil ever dared to hope it might be. It’s perfect.

After dinner they hesitate outside the restaurant. They’d taken Phil’s car – not Lola, not in the city, but a regular company car – and the subway is a block away. Clint could walk home or Phil could offer to drive him. The possibilities hang before them.

Clint silences them all by taking a step towards Phil, standing so close their breaths mingle in the night air. “Take me home with you.”

Phil looks up into Clint’s kaleidoscope eyes and _wants_ so badly he knows he can’t say no. “Yes.”

They kiss in the stairway of Phil’s apartment, and for the first time in fifteen years Phil fumbles his keys. Clint chuckles behind him, the rumble of his laugh echoing through his chest where it presses along Phil’s back. He kisses the patch of skin underneath Phil’s ear, and laughs again when Phil’s hand skids along the buttons of his passcode lock. 

When he finally gets the door open, Phil turns and drags Clint inside his apartment. They kiss like teenagers, hot and heavy, and literally tumble into bed. Phil wants to take his time and savour every piece of skin that Clint reveals, but Clint doesn’t seem interested in slowing down. 

Instead he looks up and catches Phil’s eye. Whatever he sees in Phil’s face makes his own gaze go dark. “Next time,” he promises.

Phil growls, low in his throat, and pounces. The rest of his clothes are discarded in a hurry, and when Phil finally gets a hand around Clint’s length, he _keens_. They come almost together, a messy tangle of limbs, and Phil presses lazy kisses into Clint’s shoulder until they fall asleep.

He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later when the bed shifts. There’s a kiss pressed to the corner of his lip and it’s comfortable in a way Phil knows he might become addicted to. He smiles, stretches, and opens his eyes. He can hear Clint in the kitchen.

He pulls on a pair of sleep pants and an old t-shirt and stands in the doorway of the living room, watching. Clint’s dressed in a pair of purple boxers and nothing else. His hair is standing up every which way and he looks like the incarnation of sex itself.

“How do you not have bacon, Phil? You have eggs, flour, and sugar, but no bacon. It’s a travesty.”

“I bake,” Phil informs him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t cook.”

“Well, then you're baking me pancakes.”

Phil shakes his head but does as he’s told, and afterwards they share a shower. Phil goes on his knees and takes Clint into his mouth, and he’s never particularly enjoyed shower sex before but god _damn_ , this feels good. Clint moans and leans back, water running in rivulets down his chest, and Phil fits his hands around that gorgeous ass and sucks. After, Clint wraps a hand around him and it doesn’t take long for Phil to come. 

Clint borrows a t-shirt and wears his wrinkled khakis and they walk together to the grocery store. They buy bacon, a chicken, and more vegetables than Phil thinks he’s eaten in the past month. That evening Clint roasts the chicken, and the way Phil moans around his fork has Clint’s eyes flashing before he drags him off to the bedroom again.

Tonight they move slower, taking their time, and Phil works Clint open carefully while they pant into each other’s mouths. Afterwards they lie together, sweating and sweet, and Phil knows life can’t get any better than this.

In the morning Clint makes bacon, only half of the pound he bought, and Phil allows himself to hope that he’s planning to stick around. As the day goes on, though, Clint starts to pull away. He’s obviously trying to be subtle about it, but Phil knows him too well.

Dinner is take-out eaten on the couch, and Phil’s already waiting for the words before they tumble out of Clint’s mouth. “I should get back.”

Phil swallows. He’s not trying to hide how disappointed he feels, and Clint must see it. 

“I’ve never spent more than two nights away from base before,” he offers with a smile that’s stiff and wrong. “Someone’s going to get twitchy and call it in.”

It’s a sharp reminder that Clint’s a busy man, that he’s wanted by more than just Phil. Still, he can’t help but offer, years of pent-up longing in his voice. “Stay.”

“For one more night?”

Phil knows he’s being too honest. “For ever.”

Clint’s gaze shutters. Phil knows he’s asked for too much. “I mean – ”

He never gets to finish. Clint darts forward, closing the distance between them, and latches onto Phil’s mouth. His kisses are desperate, and passionate, but sad. Phil kisses back. He knows he’s clinging but he can’t help himself. They fall back towards the bedroom, still sucking at each other’s skin, and when Phil comes it’s with a shattering inside his chest, his heart breaking.

Hours later, when Clint shifts off the bed, Phil closes his eyes and doesn’t move. He listens while the other man collects his things, and waits until the door clicks behind him as he leaves.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Going back into work on Monday is difficult. Clint is there, but he makes himself scarce. Phil gives him a couple of days and then tries to track him down. He’d rather talk about this than continue to avoid it. As much as he still wants Clint – and he still _wants_ Clint – he’s managed to successfully ignore his attraction for years. He’d honestly be happy with friendship.

Only Clint doesn’t seem to feel the same. He manages to avoid Phil until Hill has an op for him, and then he’s gone for three weeks to Sudan. When he gets back he doesn’t come to Phil’s office like he usually does after an op. He reports directly to Hill.

Phil sits in his office until sunrise, trying to calm down. He's _furious_. He’s alternately angry at himself for ever asking Clint out to dinner, and at Clint for pushing things so far and then bailing at the first opportunity. He can’t decide who he’s pissed off at more.

The problem, Phil realizes, is that underneath the anger is an old hurt. He’s never been the kind of guy who swept people off their feet. It’s obvious that all this time he was just an itch Clint wanted to scratch. Now that he has, Clint’s done with him. Sex is all he ever wanted.

They were never actually friends. 

Phil closes his eyes and tries to breathe. He tells himself it’s going to be okay.

Eventually, it is. It takes longer than Phil would like to admit to throw out the leftover food in his fridge, and he never does eat at that particular restaurant again. He still remembers the way Clint – Barton, now, because they’ve passed each other in the hallway and someone who is very definitely _Agent Barton_ has nodded to him in passing – pressed kisses into his skin. 

He never really gets over that perfect weekend, but he starts dating again. He never dated much to begin with, always too busy with work. He can admit to himself now that he was waiting. Waiting to find out how much of their flirting was just that. Waiting to learn if Clint would ever want more.

Well, he knows the answer now.

Allison is a cellist, and very lovely. They go on several dates while she’s in New York doing a guest lectureship at the NYU, and Phil can acknowledge that she is pretty and fun. He treats her to dinner in a fancy restaurant and they even sleep together, once. It’s... nice.

Phil doesn’t want nice.

He wants rough, desperate sex. He wants hands that have the power to hold him down, and shoulders that he can press into the mattress and bite. He wants someone who will laugh at his atrocious cooking and not only make him buy vegetables but make him eat them, too. He wants someone whose range skills surpass even his own. 

He wants Clint Barton.

When Allison tells him she’s moving back to Portland, Phil doesn’t ask her to stay, not even for one more night. They kiss and part as friends, and Phil is perfectly fine with that. It’s much better than the relationship he has with most of his exes.

Clint still won’t look him in the eye.

He’s gone back to bantering over the comms again, though. “You’d better call it, Coulson, ‘cause I’m starting to root for this guy.” 

It’s not like it was before, but he’s trying. Phil knows he could banter back like he used to – like _they_ used to. He’s still angry, though, and he feels no need to make this easy for Barton. He might never have considered them friends, but Phil had. He still feels that loss. He’s still angry about it. 

So he doesn’t say anything. Barton rambles on as if he doesn’t notice, and Phil does his best to keep his head in the game.

After New Mexico, Barton finds him in his office. He’s wearing a familiar half-smile, but there’s something hesitant in his gaze. “So, I – uh – I made level seven.”

“Congratuations,” Phil says. He’s aware of the promotion. Most of Barton’s paperwork still crosses his desk because of their long association. It’s standard procedure. 

“Yeah, uh...” he pauses. Phil sees the way his eyes dart to the side. For a moment he thinks Barton’s just avoiding his gaze, but then he realizes he’s staring at Phil's desk, at the place where a bag of blueberry muffins once sat. 

Phil's anger flares. His left hand clenches into a fist, and Barton must see the muscles in his shoulder bunch. He flinches. 

“I’ll just – ” he backs away, out of the office, and points down the hall, “go sign that paperwork now.”

“You do that,” Phil says with a tight nod. He watches Barton walk away.

When he’s gone, Phil sighs and drops his head into his hand. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call Barton back, to congratulate him again, to make a friendly offer for cafeteria pie or something equally mundane. But he can’t. Barton has effectively ignored him for over a year, now. Just because he wants to suddenly rekindle some kind of non-hostile relationship doesn’t mean that Phil wants the same.

He’s tired, Phil realizes as he looks back at his work. There are papers scattered around his desk, forms partially completed and reports half done. He’s been slipping for a while now. It’s more than just Barton – it’s this job. He’s been doing it for twenty years. Maybe he needs a change.

He mentions it to Nick in passing. “A smaller team, agents only, mobile and able to investigate strange occurrences as they happen. A team like that would have been useful in New Mexico.”

Nick gives him a look that says he’s not fooling anyone. Phil’s not trying to pretend he is – Nick was the one who took him out drinking, after all, who pushed him back into the dating game and listened to him moan about his fuck-ups – but he also knows that this is a good idea.

“I’ll think about it,” the Director says. “In the meantime, I want you at Pegasus.”

Phil nods. Pegasus is a shit-show waiting to happen. They both understand this. 

Of course, when it finally _does_ go down, it’s worse than either of them ever feared. Loki appears and takes Clint. Phil watches with his heart in his throat as the facility crumbles into the ground. Even after all this time, he can’t help but stare.

He’s never stopped loving Clint, he realizes. He probably never will.

It’s a scramble to get the rest of the Avengers together, to assemble them into a fighting force that can take on Loki. They get it done, because they _have_ to get it done, but when Clint and his band of mercenaries attack, Phil sees his chance. 

It’s about more than just revenge. Phil is the only agent not currently occupied with keeping them in the air who has the security clearance to access Phase 2. This isn’t just because Loki took Clint.

Not entirely.

“You lack conviction,” Phil says before he shoots Loki. It feels good. 

Still, he hopes he’s not pathetic enough to think of Clint just before he dies. He’s afraid that he will, though. He realizes as his vision greys out on Nick’s face that this probably counts.

Dammit.

Thankfully, he wakes up again. There are monitors and something is beeping and the ceiling is truly atrocious – a horrible shade of off-white with a single bloodsplatter in the centre of his vision that he remembers without any fondness at all. He’s in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical then, and he’s not dead. He drifts off with a smile on his face.

It’s weeks before he can do more than open his eyes and look around. Nick has been by and given him an update – they got Barton back, the team came together, and no matter how much Nick tries to convince him, Phil knows it wasn’t really about him; they’re a remarkable group of people, and they would have stopped the Chitauri regardless. New York has survived. 

They think he’s dead, though. Nick asks him what he wants to do about that. Phil thinks about it and realizes he’s okay with the way things stand. He’s been looking for a change, anyway.

“Small team,” he tells Nick as the Director stands to leave. “Mobile unit.”

Nick offers him a tired grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He spends the weeks of recovery in Tahiti reading through personnel folders and finding a combination that fits. Fitz and Simmons are grade-A level geniuses, and they aren’t nearly as annoying as Tony Stark. Ward is a bit of a bore, but that’s okay – Phil doesn’t think he can take another sarcastic marksman on his team. Melinda May is a foregone conclusion. Phil has backups available in case she says no, but he doesn’t think he’ll need them. May needs to get out from behind a desk.

So does he.

Things actually get off to a reasonable start. Skye is an unexpected find, but a welcome one. The team comes together slowly, often painfully, but Phil’s experienced enough to know that’s par for the course. They chase down mad scientists and wannabe billionaires and police the List. It’s good. It’s exciting, in a way he’d almost forgotten. 

Maybe Camilla is right – maybe he _is_ having a mid-life crisis. Phil’s okay with that.

They’re in Boston tracking down an alien weapons ring when the call goes out to hightail it to Chicago. Apparently there’s a man there who's prime material for the List. Phil scans his profile on the mission board. 

“Hari Pesala, Indian descent, five foot eight, hustling his way across the northern States,” Skye reads out loud. “Says here that he never misses. Best dart player on the planet.”

Phil can’t help but smile. He hasn’t thought of Barton in a while, so maybe that’s why it’s less painful now. “I know someone better.”

Skye and Ward will be their boots on the ground. Phil’s around the corner as backup with FitzSimmons watching the Bus. Before they can enter the bar, Phil hears the sounds of a scuffle. He rounds the corner on instinct and sure enough, it’s their mark. Pesala’s fighting dirty against another man in the dim alley behind the bar. The other man is holding his own, but even as Phil watches Pesala lifts his hand and the other man goes flying. He hits the brick wall and ducks to avoid a head wound, but drops into a heap on the ground.

“Confirmed, target is telekinetic,” Phil says into his comm. 

He moves in with his tazer but Pesala catches sight of him before he can open fire. He throws a blast of kinetic energy Phil’s way, and only his quick reflexes save him from being pounded into the asphalt. Phil ducks behind a garbage can before peeking out to shoot. He misses, but it’s enough to draw Pesala’s attention so Ward can sneak around to his flank.

Pesala’s too fast for them, though. He snarls and whips another blast towards Ward, who's not quite nimble enough to dodge it. Phil’s agent hits the ground with a sickening _thump_. Skye does her best to drag him away, but Pesala sees her and grins.

Phil’s just standing up to level another tazer round at their target when the man Pesala had been fighting unexpectedly jumps up. He kicks out Pesala’s knee, throwing off his aim, and then roundhouses him in the face. The telekinetic goes limp, and Phil notes even as he stands from his hiding place that the other man doesn’t move. He watches his target to make sure he stays down.

He’s only a few feet away when the man shifts to acknowledge him. The alley is dim, but there’s an orange light shining down from the building above. It casts the man’s face in shadow.

“So,” he says, and his voice is all too familiar, “this is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new elite mobile team, is it? A little slow on the uptake, aren’t y – ”

He looks up, meets Phil’s eyes, and stops, shocked. 

Phil stares back.

“Sir?” Clint Barton asks. His voice cracks.

Phil swallows. He’s not prepared for this. He manages to nod back. “Barton.”

Clint blinks. “Are you – ?” His eyes go wide. “He must have hit me harder than I thought.”

Phil resists the urge to check Clint's head for bruises. “It’s me,” he confirms instead. “The Director felt subterfuge was necessary.”

“Of course he did,” Clint – _Barton_ , Phil reminds himself – says bitterly. He shakes his head and steps back, waving at the prostrate Pesala. “You just go ahead and do your thing. I’m gonna make a call.”

Phil nods and steps towards their mark. R&D has outfitted them with a pair of ability-retarding handcuffs they want try out, so Phil snaps them onto the target while keeping his tazer ready. Pesala doesn’t move, and Phil steps back to make sure Ward is okay. He can hear Barton talking into his cell a few feet away.

“... yeah, I’m fine. I know, I...” Phil can hear his wince, “... I’m _sorry_ , Nat. I know I should have called before. I really am fine, now. I...” He pauses, and Phil can’t help but glance at him. Barton is staring back. “Phil’s here.”

He sees the way Clint’s shoulders tighten. Phil turns away because this is _not_ his problem. Damn Nick for sending his team to Chicago when Barton was already here. 

Ward’s got a good bump, but he should be fine. There’s no obvious sign of a concussion, but Phil knows he’ll need brain rest for several days. There’s no way he’ll get that on the Bus, so it’s back to New York for the team. Phil calls Melinda and Skye walks Ward back to the van. Phil turns around for Pesala.

Barton is waiting for him. 

“So, uh,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck and staring at the ground. “Nat says I need to get home so she can kick my ass. Can I catch a ride back with you?”

Phil blinks at him. “Don’t you have backup support, Agent Barton?”

“It’s just Barton, actually,” he says, still not meeting Phil’s eyes. “No ‘agent’ right now. I’m kind of on sabbatical.”

“In Chicago?” Phil can’t help but ask. Barton hates Chicago. “Chasing Pesala?”

Barton’s still looking at the ground, but Phil can see the hint of a blush come over his cheeks. “Guy was trading on my name. I took offense to that.”

Phil shakes his head. Of course he did. Maybe he’ll spare Nick his wrath after all. “Okay,” he sighs. “You can get a ride back with us.”

Barton brightens. “Really? I mean – thanks.”

The ride back to the Bus is silent. Ward keeps his eyes closed under orders and Skye finds him a pair of noise-cancelling earphones. Phil drives and Barton is quiet beside him in the passenger seat. They transport Pesala into the holding cell built into the back of the Bus and are in the air before anyone can do more than look at Barton twice.

Once they're flying and Ward is tucked away in his cabin under strict orders, though, Skye finally bursts. “Are you _Hawkeye_?”

Barton quirks a grin. “Some days.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Skye bubbles, and Phil wants to mock her but he understands. He still has painful memories of his first conversation with Captain America. “Can I have your autograph?” She blushes. “I mean – I’m totally cool and kind of an agent, and you know what? Fuck that. I _really_ want an autograph.”

Clint – _Barton_ , dammit! – laughs. It’s only when he does that Phil can see how much tension he’s still carrying in his shoulders. Under the bright lights of the Bus, Phil finally notices the dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired, and thinner than Phil remembers. He hasn’t seen Barton since he stormed the Helicarrier to free Loki. It’s obvious that the past several months haven’t been kind.

“Why don’t you get some rest, Ag – Barton,” Phil amends. There’s a story behind this sabbatical that Phil is absolutely not curious about in the least. “We’ll be in New York soon enough.”

“Thanks, sir,” Barton says, offering him a quiet smile. He glances around the plane. “Is there some place I can crash?" 

"There's a couch in my office," Phil offers before he can think better of it. He usually sleeps in his office. He can see Skye giving him looks but he ignores her and pulls out his tablet. They have a prisoner in the hold. He doesn’t need to sleep.

Life obviously resents the fact that he keeps living it, though, because they’re not halfway back to New York when they’re diverted to an emergency situation on the ground. With Ward still laid up with a possible concussion, Phil has no choice but to bring Barton on board. He’s a little worried that Barton’s particular brand of humour will go over too well with his team. Skye in particular is a concern.

Surprisingly, though, Barton stays pretty much silent on the op. No quips, no jokes, no “Come on, sir, just give me the shot so we can all go home now” bantering. Instead, Barton won’t stop _watching_ him. Phil can feel his eyes on the back of his head. Contact with the target necessitates that Phil goes into the field. He can hear the stretch of Barton’s bow over the comm. 

“Stand down, Barton,” Phil commands before reaching the meeting place.

“Just get in there, do your job, and get the fuck back here, sir,” Barton says. His voice is like ice.

Phil’s about to remind him who exactly is in charge of this mission but just then their target appears. Phil talks and they manage to resolve the situation peacefully. Barton is a tense ball of nerves all the way back to the Bus.

“What?” Phil finally demands, when they’re alone in the relative quiet of the rear compartment. 

“That was a stupid risk to take, sir,” Barton spits out. He’s pacing the short distance between the cars, his sleeve coming dangerously close to brushing Lola. 

Phil manages to control his twitch of irritation. “It was a calculated decision in the field.”

“Sure it was,” Barton laughs without humour. “Just like taking on Loki was a reasonable thing to do.”

Phil glares at him. “Is _that_ what this is about?”

“No!” Barton shouts. He steps back and rubs a hand over his face. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t fucking know.” He chuckles, but it’s a broken sound. “This is why I took myself out of the field, you know, because I’m still a fucking basketcase.”

“You took yourself out?” Phil asks. He’s watched Barton move heaven and earth to get back to the action. He’s never heard of him voluntarily taking himself out before.

Barton sighs. “Yeah. I lost my security clearance after...” he makes a face, “after Loki and everything. I fought like hell to get it back, all the way up to level six, but just before I was due to sign the paperwork for level seven I suddenly realized I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. I didn’t know if it was worth it, to keep working with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Phil blinks, surprised. He thought Barton loved working with S.H.I.E.L.D.

“You were... dead...” Barton goes on, not meeting Phil’s eyes. “Loki was gone, Natasha was settled with the Avengers. Did you know that Rogers is fitting in well? He’s got himself his own team, and everything. Stark had gone back to Malibu and Banner is happy as a clam down in R&D. I don’t know... I felt...” He stops and clenches his hand, his shooting hand, Phil notices. “I didn’t know what I wanted, anymore.”

Phil opens his mouth to speak. Barton stops him by shaking his head. “No, that’s the coward in me talking. I _knew_ what I wanted. I knew what I wanted all along. I wanted _you_.” He stops and looks up. His eyes are blazing. “All I wanted was you.”

Phil stares at him.

“But you were dead,” Barton goes on, looking away again. His hands are now clenched into fists at his sides. “You were dead and I’d already fucked that up, I’d already fucked that up so bad. I figured, what was the point of staying with S.H.I.E.L.D. after that? You were dead and gone. I’d never get the chance to make things right. I’d never – ” he squeezes his eyes shut. 

Phil can only stare. 

“Natasha told me I was being a dumbass. I didn’t talk to her, of course. I just left a note for the Director and left. Technically I _am_ back to level six, so they let me go. She left me voice messages in every state, telling me I had to get back and sign the paperwork, promising me it’d be worth it in the end. I didn’t believe her.” He looks up and meets Phil’s eyes. His lips quirk into a humourless grin. “I guess she was right. You’re _alive_. You’re alive and only level sevens knew. I probably should have expected that.”

Somehow, Phil finds his voice. “It was need to know.”

Barton gaze is bleak. “And I didn’t need to know.”

Phil doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

“So, you’re alive. You’re alive and I don’t care how. I don’t care why. I don’t care about anything but that right now. I promised myself that if I had the chance to make things right, I’d take it. So, now, I’m taking it.” Barton takes a deep breath. “Phil – will you have dinner with me?”

Phil stares at him. He fishmouths for a moment, but then shakes his head. “No. Clint – I – I’m sorry.” He is, he realizes. He has the distance to see that, now. “It wasn’t fair of me to expect anything from you. It wasn’t fair of me to shut you out when you tried to make things like they were, when you tried to make things normal again. I was angry, and I apologize. You don’t have to do this.” 

Clint stares at him. His expression is lost. “What if I _want_ to?”

Phil gazes back. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face. “I...”

Abruptly, Clint shakes his head. “Okay – no dinner. Dinner is moving too fast, anyway. I want to do this right.” He takes another deep breath. “What about your phone number? Can I call you?”

Phil blinks. “You want my phone number?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, offering a shaking laugh. “Your old one doesn’t work any more. I’m glad, too – otherwise I would have left you some pretty embarrassing voice messages.”

“I... okay,” Phil fumbles for his card. He takes out a pen and writes his personal cell onto the back. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Clint says. He takes the card. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

 

*

 

Phil doesn’t really expect Clint to call. He watches Clint walk away and gets settled on the Bus and does his best to sleep without thinking too much about it, that night. The day after they leave New York, though, after they stop a would-be terrorist with AIM connections, Phil’s laying on his couch when he gets a call.

“Hey,” Clint says, sounding hesitant over the line. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”

Phil stares at the phone. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”

“I deserve that,” Clint agrees easily. “So, um, how was your day?”

Phil can’t help but laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not? Come on – I’m level seven now. The paperwork’s all completed.”

He should probably ask for a copy, but Phil shrugs instead. “It was a fairly simple terrorist plot, by AIM standards. Fitz was able to defuse the bomb without undue stress.”

“I wonder if Fitz would say the same.”

Phil has to smile. “Probably not. So, how about you? Any new bruises?”

Clint sighs, but it’s a happy sound. “Yeah. Natasha is not impressed with me.”

Phil hums. “She must be glad to have you back, though.”

“She is,” Clint agrees. He’s silent for a moment over the line. Phil listens to the sounds in the background. There aren’t many. 

“Where are you right now?” 

“At the Tower. Tony – Stark – he made us all rooms, you know? Construction isn’t quite finished yet and he’s spending most of his time in Malibu these days, but it’s still nice.”

“Nicer than your old apartment?”

He can hear Clint’s wince. “Yeah, uh. The apartment got trashed by the Chitauri.”

“Oh,” Phil says. “Was Betty okay?” Betty is Clint’s ancient circus bow, the one he’s carried with him since childhood. She had lived on a peg on Clint’s wall.

“She’s fine,” Clint tells him. “A little banged up, but I managed to drag her out of the rubble.” His voice drops lower. “I cried like a baby when I found her.”

“Yeah?” Phil asks. It’s easier, somehow, to talk in the near-darkness of his office.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “I mean, it was just one more thing on top of another, you know? I told myself that it didn’t matter if she got destroyed, that it was stupid to hang onto the past like that, but then when I found her and saw that she was okay, I just fucking lost it.”

“I guess we all get good at lying to ourselves in this job.”

Clint lets out a humourless laugh. “Yeah. I always thought I’d avoided that, and then it turns out I’d been lying to myself for _years_.”

Phil can’t help but ask. “What about?”

“You.” Clint’s voice is honest. “I told myself that I didn’t expect anything, that it would never go anywhere, that I should take what I could get. And then I get promoted to level six and suddenly you're asking me out to dinner like I _matter_ and – fuck. I jumped on it. And no matter how much I pushed you just kept giving me _more_. It freaked me out.”

Phil stares at the darkness of his ceiling. “I didn’t think I was that frightening.”

“You’re fucking _terrifying_ ,” Clint tells him, dead serious. “Do you know how scary is it to suddenly get everything you’ve ever wanted?”

“I know what it feels like to lose it.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s true. Your recovery post-Loki has been pretty tough, huh?”

Phil rolls his eyes. “I was talking about _you_ , dumbass.”

He can hear Clint swallow. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Oh.”

Neither of them says anything for a moment. Phil starts to feel uncomfortable. “Listen, I – ”

“I’m still in love with you,” Clint blurts out. 

Phil pauses. “What?”

“I said I’m still in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years. Even when I was freaking out and avoiding you while hiding in the vent shafts above your office, I was still in love with you. I just didn’t know how to make things right.”

There’s a buzzing in the back of Phil’s head. “You couldn’t, maybe, have talked to me about it?”

“No,” Clint laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “I really, really couldn’t have.”

“But you’re talking to me now?”

“I talked to you lots when you were dead. Or, when I thought you were dead. I guess it’s gotten easier.”

Phil nods, even though Clint can’t see him. “I never stopped being in love with you, either,” he confesses, “but that’s not... it’s not...”

“Always enough,” Clint finishes for him in a rush. “I know. That’s why I’m just calling, and not hiding out in the back of the Bus. I just thought you should know, is all.”

Phil can’t help but glance in the direction of the rear compartment. “You aren’t really hiding in the back of the Bus, are you?”

He can practically _hear_ Clint’s grin. “No. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil says, still suspicious, but he’s smiling as he hangs up the phone.

 

*

 

Life settles into a new sort of pattern. Phil stays in control of his team, goes about his new life, and then tells Clint all about it for an hour before bed. Clint likewise fills him in on all the goings-on back at Headquarters, Natasha’s latest escapades, and the face Sitwell made after Simmons tranq'd him. 

“Priceless,” Clint crows. “I’m going to print copies and plaster them all over his wall.”

“He deserves it,” Phil growls, still upset at how the entire situation went down. “Did you know Hand tried to you use and Natasha as an excuse not to plan for an extraction?”

“To play devil’s advocate, _we_ never had an extraction plan,” Clint points out.

“You and Natasha are Avengers,” Phil says. “Ward and Fitz are nowhere near your level.”

“We weren’t Avengers, then.”

“You were still extraodinary,” Phil dismisses. “You’ll always be that.”

“Aww, we’re still your favourites, then,” Clint teases.

“Of course you are,” Phil tells him. “That’s not the point.”

There’s a pause from Clint’s end, and then a quiet, “Huh.”

“What?”

“We’re really still your favourites? I mean, it’s been years since you worked directly with either of us and your new team is handpicked, after all.”

Clint’s voice is quiet. It’s obvious the answer is important to him. Phil stops pacing in his office and sits down at his desk. “I don’t think anything could ever compare to working with Strike Team Delta,” he admits. “I love my team, and I’ve worked hard to bring them together, but the two of you – ” Phil shakes his head. “It was an honour. I knew that at the time. It’s one of the reasons I waited to say anything. I didn’t want to destroy what we had.”

“And when you finally did, I destroyed it anyway.”

Phil doesn’t like to think of that. “Our lives were changing, regardless. You earned that level six, Clint.”

“Maybe,” Clint says, not really agreeing. “I missed you like hell, though, after.”

Phil swallows. “I missed you, too.” He looks around his empty office. “I still miss you.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks. He sounds hesitant. “Think I could stowaway on the Bus soon, maybe?”

Phil has to smile at the thought. He’s getting closer to saying yes. “Maybe.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Clint promises. 

Phil smiles.

 

*

 

It’s another six weeks before they’re in New York for any length of time. Phil thinks over and over again that Clint is going to give up, that he’s going to end their nighttime discussions and go back to better and more immediate things. He never does, though. He seems to genuinely enjoy talking to Phil, and listening to him speak in turn. 

Phil thought he knew everything there was to know about Clint Barton, but he learns so much more during their hour-long conversations at night. He learns the kinds of things you only say to someone when you can’t look into their eyes, when all they are is a voice in the dark. They talked on comms, before, but it was always with the knowledge that the conversation was being recorded. There was always a mission, or a job, or something pushing them to work together. 

Now it’s just an open line of communication, a call that either of them can end when they choose. They choose not to, together.

It feels like they’re building towards something important, something real. Phil realizes as Melinda lands the Bus at the New York office that he’s nervous. He gets what Clint had said about being offered everything you’ve ever wanted. The urge to run is palpable beneath his breast.

He’s never been the kind to run away, though. Phil straightens his shoulders as he gives his team the two weeks leave they’ve been promised. He retrieves his bag and the keys to Lola and takes a deep breath before getting into the car. He’s meeting Clint at the main entrance to the New York office. They’re going to have dinner.

He guides Lola down the ramp of the Bus and turns in the direction of roadway that circles the tarmac. There’s a familiar figure waiting just beyond the safety range of the plane. Phil coasts over to where Clint is waiting.

“I got anxious just standing around,” Clint admits when Phil coasts to a stop.

“Afraid I wasn’t going to show?” 

“Afraid I’d try to run,” Clint says. His hands twitch. “Can I get in?”

Phil smiles. “It’s a long walk to the restaurant if you don’t.”

Clint flashes him a grin. “I’ve never ridden in Lola before.”

“I know,” Phil says, because there are a very few people who have. “It seemed important.”

Clint runs a covetous hand over the dash. “She’s beautiful.”

“She really is,” Phil agrees, because he’s spent years on this car. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Clint says. He turns to look Phil in the eye. “I think I finally am.”

Phil can feel his heart swell in his chest. “Okay,” he says, and pushes the car into drive. “Let’s go.”


End file.
